Forgetting the Ordinary
by HoweverImprobable
Summary: John is getting bored of his ordinary life. Sherlock, he soon finds, is just the sort of extraordinary that he's been craving. When a case crops up at their university, how can the two danger-seekers resist?
1. Chapter 1

_In which John rescues Sherlock and Sherlock is ungrateful_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes didn't have many friends. None, actually. He'd garnered a reputation for himself as a bit of a freak, an oddity amongst the rest of the students. For the first year of his university experience, he'd actually tried acting normal. And that was all it was, really—an act. Anyone who truly knew him (and only Mycroft really did, though Sherlock hated to admit it) would be aware of the fact that there was nothing about Sherlock that was normal in any way.

Despite his other-ness, despite being so strange, Sherlock had faked being ordinary. He knew what people did with those that were too different from themselves, and he wanted to see if acting like he fit in would improve his schooling experience. He could have managed fine if it was just a simple act he put on, but because he seemed so normal, people tried to talk to him. That, of course, was the worst bit. They were all so boring, with their boring lives and their boring stories and their boring little problems. Sherlock simply couldn't stand having to act so uninteresting all the time when he was intrinsically the opposite of that. In the end, that was why he'd found it so difficult to keep up the façade. There were simply too many dull people around him, and he got sick of pretending to be one of them. When it got to be too much of a chore, he dropped the act entirely.

That was when his other-ness was exposed for everyone to see, and that was when the rumours about him started.

People were baffled by his sudden change in behaviour. No one understood it. As is often the case, the incomprehensible led to fear, and fear led to hatred. It was his sudden attitude shift that caused Sherlock Holmes to be hated amongst his classmates. As expected, they didn't take to his real personality as easily as they had to his fake one.

Not that he cared, of course. (Not that he would ever admit to caring.) He'd spent the entirety of his schooling up until that point as an outcast among his peers. This was nothing new to him. He had attempted to start things at university differently, if only to see what it was like, but it seemed that he was instead just going to fall back into his old pattern of being ridiculed and disliked.

He knew the pattern well, and that was precisely why it wasn't all that surprising when he was shoved from behind roughly enough that some of the books in his arms tumbled to the floor.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" called his abuser—a boy in his third year named Bradley (or was it Brian? Unimportant). "Couldn't you have seen that coming with your little superpower?" And oh, it was so pathetic that he thought he was being clever with that taunt.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as he knelt down to pick up his books. "I did see that coming, as a matter of fact," he replied disinterestedly, not looking up at Bradley/Brian. "You lot are so predictable. Really, when are you going to think up something more interesting than a bit of shoving?" Finally having gathered his things, he stood up and rounded on Bradley. "And it's not a superpower." He said the word as if it were an insult, which, for him, it actually rather was. "I merely observe what the rest of you imbeciles don't care to. It's hardly my fault you didn't like what I saw. Now, if you'd be so kind as to move." He started walking away, shoving past Bradley-Brian a bit more harshly than was necessary. Payback, he thought with a smirk.

The other boy went distinctly pale for a moment, clearly remembering the rather embarrassing secret Sherlock had been able to deduce about him earlier in the week—an STI that had been given to him by another man. Anger seemed to take over from his humiliation, and his cheeks flushed with rage. Sherlock was grabbed firmly by the arm and spun around. He didn't have to be clever in order to pick up on the fact that things would get violent if the boy didn't calm down soon.

Sherlock, however, had never been one for self-preservation, so he simply continued to treat Bradley-Brian-whatever to his most condescending glare. He tried to jerk his arm away, but that merely resulted in the tightening of the grip that held him.

"You said you wouldn't bring that up again," the boy muttered, his fists clenching. "I swear to God, Holmes, if you so much as breathe another word about it—"

Sherlock heaved a sigh as if these proceedings were boring him. He did have a much more interesting experiment to catch up on, and he was keen on getting out of there as soon as possible so that he could entertain himself in more enjoyable ways. He calculated that inducing more rage in the imbecile in front of him could either get him to storm off in a huff or spark a fight. Hoping for the former, he said scathingly, "I never agreed to such a thing. You made pointless, uncreative threats until I grew tired of it and walked away. I can say as much as I want about your little…problem, and there's really nothing you can do about it." He widened his eyes and smiled, as if just getting a great idea. "In fact, why don't I just run down and tell your girlfriend exactly what's wrong with you?"

Sherlock knew immediately that he had gone a bit too far. Bradley-Brian-unimportant gripped Sherlock's arm so tightly that there would almost certainly be a bruise, and his face was completely overtaken by a furious, red tinge.

"Don't you fucking dare," Bradley-Brian all but shouted, jostling Sherlock as if that would make his words sink in. "You said you'd leave it alone. Don't you fucking tell her a thing."

In that moment, Sherlock felt a spark of fear. It was subtle enough that he could pass it off as adrenalin, but it was there all the same. He was, after all, entirely trapped in the clutches of a strong, older man. It was an unfortunate situation, and all Sherlock could really do was struggle to get his arm free and launch as much of a counterattack as he was able to. His books fell to the floor as he attempted to land a decent punch on his attacker's face. That didn't work out well for him, and he ended up with his free arm restrained as well. He tried kneeing Bradley-Brian in the groin, but there was too great a distance between them to land the blow successfully.

Sherlock was painfully aware of how out of hand this situation was. He was used to beatings, and as one seemed imminent (he could recognise the signs by now), he retreated back into his mind, reminding himself that his body was just transport.

§

John Watson did not go looking for trouble. As a rule, trouble seemed to avoid him, leaving him carefully devoid of any and all adventures. He was ordinary in nearly every way. Blending in wherever he went, never making too solid of an impression, he was the very definition of unassuming.

Now, this wasn't out of any conscious decision on John's part. In fact, he got rather bored of his life sometimes. The problem was that everything about him was ordinary, and there was a strong part of him that despised that ordinariness.

So when he saw the signs of one guy picking on another as he walked back from a lecture, he decided that his ordinary life could go hang. He was damn well going to get some excitement, even if that meant walking right into the middle of a fight.

As John approached, he noticed that one of the participants looked familiar; he was called Brendan, if John remembered correctly, and he was a bit of a twat. The other kid looked a bit younger, though his sneer was vicious enough to add a few years to his appearance. The two of them were really going at it—throwing kicks at one another with Brendan shaking the poor kid so violently that John really couldn't help but intervene.

"Oi!" he called. He jogged forward so that he was near enough to them to be heard but not so near as to be made a target himself. John still did have some instinct of self-preservation, and he wasn't going to be dragged into this if he could help it.

Two heads snapped over in his direction, and John found himself subject to a glare from Brendan and an incredulous look from the boy he was beating.

John felt a bit awkward standing there, but he maintained his resolve. "Why don't you two break up whatever this is, yeah? No need for anyone to get hurt."

Brendan's gaze snapped back over to the boy he was restraining. "He fucking deserves it," he muttered. He released one of the kid's arms and made as if to punch him. For his part, the person he was holding used this as an opportunity to break free, which he would have successfully managed if he hadn't slipped over the books that were scattered on the floor by his feet.

"Alright, alright," John said, raising his voice and stepping closer. Seeing that this clearly wasn't going to stop in its own, he was ready to intervene if necessary, a thrill going through him at the thought of actually having to take physical action. "Leave him alone. No one deserves to get beaten to a pulp." When common sense—common morality, even—didn't seem to be having any effect, John added, "And I don't think you can risk getting reported for physical assault again, can you, Brendan?" He made sure that his tone was the slightest bit threatening. He truly would report the guy if that was what it came down to. John had no qualms about getting a tool like that expelled, especially when he seemed so intent on causing as much damage to his victim as possible.

Brendan seemed caught for a moment. It was obvious that he wanted to stay until the kid he was attacking was a bloody mess, but there seemed to be some rationality leaking into that thick skull of his. He clearly knew that he really couldn't get another infraction like this, and after passing a quick glance over at John, it seemed that he realised that the threat was real.

"Fine," Brendan spat, releasing the kid entirely. "But this isn't over, Holmes. And if you breathe a word of this, I swear to God—" With a glance between John and his victim, he reluctantly began to walk away.

As soon as he was a good distance off, John walked over to the boy who'd been left behind. "Hey," he said, aiming for gentle. He didn't know how badly the boy had been hurt before he'd arrived, and he thought it best to approach the situation with caution. "You alright?"

The kid ignored John at first, instead bending down to pick up his fallen books. When John went over to help, that vicious sneer that he'd seen earlier was turned on him.

"I don't need your help," the boy practically snarled. "You've done your bit; now leave."

John was inclined to be offended at the boy's tone. He had, after all, just saved him from a rather nasty beating. Wasn't some gratitude expected in this sort of situation? "At least let me help you with those," he muttered, bending down to assist in picking up books and papers. Though he was feeling decidedly less courteous now, John still was decent at heart, and he wasn't going to just leave the kid on his own, no matter how obnoxious he was.

"I've already said that I don't need your help," was the only response John got for his troubles.

A paper was snatched out of John's hands as he reached over to give it back. The move wasn't quick enough for John to miss the name written on top, however. Sherlock Holmes, it had said. Which meant that this kid, this scrawny, bratty thing, was the Sherlock Holmes that everyone complained about. Silently processing this new information, John eyed the boy—Sherlock, he reminded himself—and tried to see what was so bad about him, other than the obvious personality defect.

Evidently picking up on this scrutiny, Sherlock shot John another ungrateful glare. He soon gathered up all his things and was standing once more. "I see you've figured it out, then," he said, jutting his chin out defiantly. "Sorry you've saved a freak, are you? I didn't need your help. I was fine on my own. You should have just left it well enough alone."

John was going to protest that he wasn't sorry about anything he'd done. He was a bit indignant that his heroics, which he was rather proud of, were being disregarded so easily. He was just about to defend himself when Sherlock stormed off, walking quickly enough that John would have to run to catch up to him.

"You're welcome, you wanker!" he shouted after Sherlock. Even still, John stayed where he was. He didn't want to bother with some ungrateful sod. Instead, he stared after Sherlock's retreating form, wondering what the hell was the matter with him.

Perhaps Sherlock didn't like looking like a victim. Perhaps he was so upset because he'd seemed weak. Or perhaps he really was that much of a dick all the time.

John really didn't know about any of that, but there were a few things John was certain of. First off, Sherlock Holmes wasn't ordinary by any stretch, and secondly, this had been the most interesting thing that had happened to John in a long while.


	2. Chapter 2

_In which a body is discovered and John surprises Sherlock_

* * *

A few weeks after John's strange encounter with Sherlock Holmes, news of a rather horrific incident began to spread around campus. Brendan, the one who had been previously intent on beating Sherlock, had been found dead in his room. Investigators swarmed the school, asking questions of his friends and trying to figure out if his death had been anything other than accidental.

Upon hearing about this, John's first thought was that it had been Sherlock Holmes. He quickly dismissed that theory, because while Sherlock Holmes might have been strange (and he certainly was very strange), he didn't seem homicidal. John had done some asking around about the boy after their brief meeting, and what he gathered from that was simply that Sherlock liked to tear people down. Or perhaps a better way to put that was to say that he enjoyed exposing what everyone was trying to hide. John wasn't quite sure that there was anything malicious in it; just some way to get the truth out. From that, John decided that Sherlock Holmes was probably the type to attack verbally or in a particularly clever, roundabout way rather than directly or physically.

John later learned that the police involved were calling the incident a self-inflicted accident, which meant that murder by Sherlock Holmes was even more unlikely.

For the remainder of the day, all anyone would talk about was how sad it was that Brendan had died, or what a shame it was that he'd drunk himself to death when he had so much potential. Personally, John wasn't all that affected by the news of Brendan's death. He felt incredibly guilty about not grieving, of course, but Brendan had been a dick, and John didn't make a habit of sympathising with people like that.

†

Sherlock took the news of Brendan's untimely end much more lightly than John had. He didn't even pretend to be sorry at the death of his peer, instead choosing excitement over any feigned grief. After all, it wasn't often that someone just dropped dead at school, regardless of how desperately Sherlock wished some people would.

He'd even managed to sneak into the crime scene for a brief moment before he'd been thrown out (a bit more roughly than he'd thought necessary). While he was there, he noticed irritation between Brendan's toes, leading him to look more closely there. What he'd found was one small puncture mark hidden away in a place that no one would find cause to check.

"This man was murdered," Sherlock had announced to the room upon reviewing his findings.

The officers around him had looked up, startled at Sherlock's sudden presence. He had rolled his eyes at them, wondering how they could possibly hope to conduct an investigation when they were so clearly lacking in observational skills.

"How did you get in here?" a rather peeved detective inspector had asked him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sherlock's expression had darkened with frustration at not being listened to. "Didn't you hear me?" he'd demanded. "I said that Brendan Wilcott was _murdered_. It wasn't some accident brought on by drinking too much."

None of them would listen to him, though, and Sherlock was soon physically escorted away from the room. He'd shouted his deductions at them, which only seemed to convince them that he needed to be as far away from the crime scene as possible.

Hours later, when it grew to be dark outside and the investigation had been all but wrapped up, Sherlock could be found pacing in his own dorm, hands fisted in his hair. He tried coming up with the best possible strategy for getting those idiotic investigators to see the truth, but he soon grew bored of trying to work out how to approach them.

There was nothing for it, then. He decided that he would simply have to conduct his own investigation and bring them back the results. When he had a killer, maybe _then _they would finally take him seriously.

Sherlock ceased his pacing and clasped his hands together in front of his face. An excited smile spread across his features. Oh, this was going to be _fun_!

Roughly an hour later, Sherlock had gathered his things and was in the process of heading toward the crime scene (and there really had been a crime, he was sure of it). Quietly, he slipped into the proper building and made his way toward Brendan's room. The police had left bright yellow tape behind in an attempt to cordon off the place, but it was laughable to think that that would deter Sherlock.

He knelt down in front of the door, having pushed the tape aside, and pulled out his set of lock-picks. He was nearly done working on the door; just a few seconds longer and it would spring open. Just as long as no one came down the hallway—

"Hey, you there! What are you doing?"

Or not.

Sherlock looked up and prepared to explain himself to whoever had been foolish enough to interrupt him, when he found himself staring at the approaching form of the boy who had saved him from Brendan not two weeks prior. Sherlock shook away any lingering emotional response that was stirred up by the sight of the stranger and focused himself once more on getting the door open.

"If you'd care to look at what's in front of you, you'll notice that I'm picking the lock to this room," he drawled, hoping that strong enough disinterest would cause the boy to simply walk away.

"Well, that's pretty obvious," was the irritated reply. "Would you mind explaining _why_ you're blatantly breaking into a sectioned off area?"

Sherlock would have thought that the answer to that question would be rather obvious as well, but apparently the student population was less intelligent than he'd assumed. "I'm investigating."

Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know that the boy was furrowing his brow in confusion. "Investigating what? They said it was accidental. He drank too much, passed out, and choked on his own vomit."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock said, "'They' are idiots. They have no idea how to handle an investigation like this. Of course it wasn't accidental. If they'd even bothered to observe the scene at all, they would have noticed that it was clearly murder."

Finally, he heard the telltale click that indicated that the door was now unlocked. At least now he wouldn't have to stick around for any more dreadful conversation.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got a murder to solve." With that, Sherlock stepped into Brendan's former room and flicked on the light.

"What exactly are you looking for?" came a voice just behind him.

Sherlock startled, not having realised that he'd been followed into the room. He narrowed his eyes at his companion. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be off reporting me for breaking and entering?"

If the boy cared that his question had been ignored, he didn't show it. Instead, he did quite the opposite of what Sherlock had been expecting—he actually _smiled_, of all things. No one smiled when they talked to Sherlock Holmes. It was an accepted rule. Apparently, though, this boy didn't care if rules were broken. "I figure an investigation might work a bit better with two people." Then he stuck out his hand and said, "John Watson. I didn't get to introduce myself properly last time. You were too busy with the whole running off business."

Sherlock stared down at the proffered hand for a long moment before he took it, still sceptical about all of this. "Sherlock Holmes." He realised, though, that the boy—John Watson—already knew that. "Obviously," he added. He quickly dropped John's hand and turned his attention to the room around them.

Sherlock was distracted, though. John's reactions were interesting, so much so that Sherlock found it momentarily difficult to focus on the task at hand. John was simply unexpected, and Sherlock always loved to analyse unexpected things. John had stepped in on Sherlock's behalf weeks prior; John had followed him into the room rather than reporting him; John had offered his hand instead of holding a grudge from their last meeting. All of that went against everything Sherlock had learned about people up to that point.

John Watson, it seemed, was an anomaly of sorts, and that was always interesting.

Sherlock spun around and pressed his fingertips together under his chin. His slightly manic, mostly excited grin tugged up at his lips. An anomaly and a case—oh, this was _Christmas_!


End file.
